Back to Brighton for the first time in several years.

It's not changed, nor has my reaction. I raved then, I rave again. It's so atypically British, in fact it's atypically anywhere, it looks like it's been invented, except it has n't.

It's the fusion of blissful weather, a long beach, ingrained raffishness, camp glamour, and sheer youth.

And it's the latter that's the green fuse that drives this mad city. It's was the fabulous quartet of near balletic frisbee throwers; a more than passbale jazz funk cum acid rock trio with a Bez like dancer outside a very hip beachside bar; the strident sax player a few beats away from an imperturbable Bela Lugosi human statue.

Then there's the Lanes, which seems to be an endless frothing stream of nose-studded vegetarian Guardian readers (I'm the last of the two). And hardly anyone over thirty anywhere.